The protocol definition was a key, a legend. It let him turn the binary language of the decrypted signals into something that made sense.

He moved slowly, carefully. There in the protocol definition was the command for “fire”, the arguments that it took. He searched through the decrypted signals, looking, looking. Was it there? Could there be some mistake? Could he be wrong?

Then he found it. The Fire command.

He checked its definition again. The Fire function took two arguments, the object identifier and an offset from that target. He translated what he saw in the binary into something he could read.

FIRE (<target 1>, <-0.5, 0, 0>)

And he was right. He was so so right. And he wished he weren’t.

Someone had used the Nexus from his lab. Someone had used the software his team had built. They’d used it to take control of Steve Travers, to turn him into a robot assassin, they’d used it to tell him to fire.

And to fire half a meter to the left of his target.

They’d used it to shoot at the President, but not to hit him. To miss.

“They could have at least been better shots!” Anne said in his memories.

Oh no. They hit exactly what they meant to.

Who had the most to gain? Nakamura’s voice asked him.

Stockton was losing until the PLF tried to kill him, Anne answered. He’s going to win because of the assassination attempt.

The answer was clear.

The President had the most to gain.

Chapter 35: Last Words

35

LAST WORDS

Saturday October 27th

Sam crossed the courtyard to Jake, fell to her knees at his side. He was face down in the gravel. His mind was still there, but in pain, and fading. A red stain was spreading across his back. A puddle was forming under him. There was a hole in his shirt, in the flesh below, where the bullet had punched all the way through him.

“Jake, Jake,” she said. “Oh my God, Jake.”

He groaned in pain. “Sunee…” he said weakly. His mind was faltering, confused, weak from blood loss.

Sam put her hands on his shirt, ripped it open as gently as she could, tried to see the wound better.

It was bad. The bullet had punched through his lung, had sent an expanding cone of carnage through his chest cavity. There was blood everywhere. Something had nicked a major blood vessel.

“Sunee…” he groaned. He was reaching out for her with his mind, trying to feel her more. She could feel him fading, fading further.

She balled up the shirt, pressed it into the wound as best she could. The blood kept coming.

No doctor, she thought. No vehicle.

“Let me touch you…” he moaned. “Please.”

“You’re not going to die,” she told him.

His eyes were open. He was staring at her. He knew what was coming.

“Please…” he begged her.